Season After Season
by vegetabeale
Summary: Highschool (and beyond) AU. "People have asked me what went wrong, since me and Chloe had always been 'such good friends.' Maybe one day, I'll be able to give them this notebook and let them dive into the story themselves. I can't right now, though. The wounds are still open."
1. A Change of Pace

**A/N: So, this is going to be a multichapter that is very close to my heart. This is told from Beca's point of view, as if you're reading her personal journal. Eventual Bechloe, even though it starts off as one-sided Beca x Stacie, but this fic will mostly focus on Beca's inner thoughts and self-discovery. Trigger warnings will be posted at the beginning of every chapter, if there are any. Without further ado...enjoy!**

When you fall in love, it's as if the world's stopped. You have a wave of mixed emotions that just keeps lapping at you; one minute, you want to run up and kiss the person like there's no tomorrow, and the next, you just want to run to the bathroom and throw up.

Love is absolute bullshit.

You don't always make the best decisions when you're in love. You lie a lot. You hurt a lot of feelings. But in the moment, it all feels right. The consequences don't matter. You're doing it all to be closer to the person your life revolves around.

Of course, the consequences come back to bite you in the ass later.

I'm Beca Mitchell, and this is my journal. I don't exactly know why I've decided to write in a journal, but I don't usually think much about my decisions. Especially not when it comes to her.

* * *

It started way back in second grade, with a girl named Margo Coddington.

Oh yeah, I'm gay. Sorry if you didn't catch on to that.

Of course, I didn't know that at the time. To me, it was just a confusing feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was only seven, and I did the only thing an innocent seven-year-old could do: acted on my emotions. Not my smartest move.

I wrote her notes, talked intimately with her (or, at least as intimate as two second graders could get), and even wrote a "book" about how we became friends (a three-page-story written in crayon on printer paper, complete with numerous grammatical errors).

Eventually, though, I think the utter creepiness became apparent to Margo. She began avoiding me, ignoring me, and our "best friendship" crumbles.

Still, I wasn't done loving her. Every morning on the ride to school, I'd look out the bus window and watch her walking up the street, heading for the very same place.

One morning, I walked into my classroom to find myself surrounded by Margo and her little bitch-squad. I thought that maybe she was going to apologize. Maybe they would ask me to join their reading group.

"My mom says only boys call other girls beautiful," said Margo, referring to a note I'd once written her. "So, I think you're a boy."

The girl to her right giggled. "Maybe her hair's a wig!"

Before I knew it, I was surrounded by a group of girls chanting "Beca's a boy!" over and over as they pulled at my hair. I tore myself away and cried all the way to the bathroom.

From that moment on, I hate Margo Coddington. I hated everyone. I hated myself.

* * *

But that's just the backstory. This is where it really begins.

Fast-forward to eleventh grade. My life was a wreck. Margo and her friends had risen to the epitome of popularity back in middle school, and her and I had been in some huge rivalry for years now. Calling us enemies? It would be an understatement.

High school was killing me. My grades were slipping, and god forbid I actually made any friends. No one wanted to try and break down the walls of the "alt girl." And I was just fine with that.

The first few days of my junior year went by well. Margo ended up being in almost all of my classes, but I wasn't all that worried. I hadn't had a "girl crush" in years, and maybe this year I would be able to put it all behind me.

My birthday fell on the second week of classes. It went just like any other day. I slouched in my seat and looked at the clock, waiting for math class to end and the final bell of the day to ring.

I felt a tap on my back and half-turned, my eyes focused on the screen of my phone. If I didn't beat this level of Angry Birds soon, my head was going to explode.

"Happy birthday, Beca. It is your birthday, right?"

"Yeah, I, uh...thanks," I sputtered, not sure what to do. No one knew my birthday. No one knew anything about me. I looked up to see who the voice belonged to, and a million thoughts flooded my head.

We went to elementary school together, though I hadn't met her before I shut myself down. I used to admire her, though; she always stuck up for smaller kids on the playground, and managed to make friends with all of the boys. And even at that age, she was pretty good looking.

Stacie Conrad.

Her name echoed in my head as a wave of nausea built up inside of me. For a girl I'd known my whole life, I was feeling something awfully strange. And awfully familiar.

It was a feeling I'd had only once before, when I was seven years old. When I walked into Ms. Jeffries's room on the first day of second grade. The same feeling I had when I first saw Margo Coddington.

As soon as I got home, I threw up. And I knew, even before the words escaped my lips.

"Fuck. Let round two begin."

* * *

I'd been sitting for hours, looking through her Facebook pictures. Within a week, I'd pretty much turned into a stalker.

I clicked "next." A picture from the local fair a few years back appeared. I saw Stacie, Aubrey Posen, and some redheaded chick I didn't recognize.

Keep that redhead in mind. She'll be important later on.

I sighed. If only I could be friends with Stacie Conrad...I'd give anything...

I hadn't been drawn to someone, especially not a girl, since I was seven. This was some big shit for me. And once again, I was sorting through my shit alone.

A wave of depression came over me. So I did the only thing I could do: got my laptop out, and made music. DJing and mixing took the place of human interaction in my life. It always calmed me down after a rough day.

Admittedly, I had a playlist of mixes on my phone that I'd created, titled "Stacie."

I mumbled to myself, trying to find a song with a chord progression similar to Avril Lavigne's "Complicated." My mind began to wander. What if she were my best friend? My first kiss? If only.

Before I knew it, I'd passed out, the heat from my computer taking the place of a blanket. I can still remember the dream I had. Some things you just never forget, no matter how fucking hard you try.


	2. Exposure

**A/N: I'd like to say thank you to all of you for the amazing response I've had to this story, both here and on Tumblr! I'm so sorry that it took me so long to update; I've had some personal drama lately, but updates should be fairly regular now.**

**This is just a very short chapter to wrap up the Beca/Stacie backstory, and the next chapter (which brings Chloe into the equation) will be posted in an hour or so :)**

I spent the majority of those first few months trying to keep my phone away from Stacie, who was thankfully in most of my classes, and her bitch-of-a-best-friend Aubrey. That uptight bitch had never liked me. Maybe she was jealous that I was getting so close to her best friend. Maybe I didn't care.

Stacie was the first person I'd opened up to in years. I told her things about myself that no one knew. But she was always so eager to know who I was spending so much time making mixes for. Oh, the irony. Just one glance at my cellular device would provide the answer.

Part of me wanted her to know, and part of me knew better. I decided that for my own good, this was staying a secret. I wasn't losing her the way I'd lost Margo.

Then came November 9th.

I'd started regularly spending my lunches with Stacie and her friends. That day, I'd gotten up to purchase a Snapple from the vending machines, and stupidly left my things behind at my seat. When I returned, the conversation took a turn.

"So, I know who you've been spending all your time obsessing over," Aubrey bragged.

I rolled my eyes and smirked. "Sure you do."

And then she did something that scared the living shit out of me: she pulled a cell phone out from under the table.

_My_ cell phone.

All color drained from my face.

"You should really be careful where you leave your property when you get up, Beca," she said with a smirk, tossing onto the table face-up. There was a playlist open, the title glaring at me in big, bold letters. Stacie.

* * *

I spent the rest of the day silent and anxious. What in the fucking world was going to happen? Was Aubrey going to out me? Had Stacie seen the phone before I'd stuffed it back in my pocket? If she did, would she ever want to speak with me again?

The bus ride home was when I decided that I needed to talk to her. I texted her a tentative "Hi..."

She responded with an enthusiastic "Hey!"

"Look, Stacie, I don't know what to say to you right now..."

"Becs, I've known for some time now. I just didn't say anything because I didn't want to make things awkward, or ruin our friendship. But seriously, who doesn't want a piece of this? ;)"

I could practically see her groping her boobs as I read the message. Groaning, I asked the question that was eating away at my mind. "So this doesn't change anything?"

"Of course not."


	3. Break My Expectations

**A/N: As promised, here's chapter three. Thanks again for all of the support, guys. This story is very close to my heart for many reasons, and even though first-person POV isn't usually my style, I'm very glad to see that you guys are enjoying it.**

**- TRIGGER WARNING TRIGGER WARNING TRIGGER WARNING -**

The rest of my junior year flew by, and was pretty much uneventful. Stacie and I were closer than ever, and even though I finally had managed to somewhat get over her as summer rolled around, I tended to be a very jealous companion. She was the only person I really had in my life, and even the silliest things could make me feel like I was losing her.

Aubrey never outed me, though she did hang the threat over my head quite a bit. Her and Stacie remained friends, but they'd begun to grow apart considerably.

Rumors had definitely been spreading about my sexuality, but fortunately they were usually overshadowed by some girl getting pregnant or a football player doing drugs. Or so I thought.

The first week of my senior year was just a little bit of a buzzkill. Okay, if we're being honest, it totally sucked. I didn't try hard enough to make it into any APs, so my schedule was a lump of courses with a bunch of juniors and the other lazy seniors.

That Saturday, my birthday rolled around again. It also happened to be the day of the annual local carnival. Normally, I didn't bother attending; I would much rather work on my music, my _future_, than drop a fortune on rickety rides and shitty food.

But Stacie asked me to meet her there, and I never could say no to her. She promised to call me around 12:30 so we could meet up.

Now, let me give you a image of what I was getting dragged into. The entire town is practically shut down for this thing. There's a parade in the morning, vendors line the streets, and the park has rides and a stage set up for anyone who wants to sing. Everyone from my school went every year. Except for me.

Yet, there I was, sitting on the curb trying to ignore the activity going on around me. I checked my watch. 1:45. I'd called Stacie four times, with no answer. Yeah, I was pissed. She could at least let me know if she was going to blow me off.

Sighing, I began walking across town, towards the park. My anger continued to build. I mean, what was I? Chopped liver?

As I passed the stage, the opening notes of "Popular" began playing. I stifled a smile. I was maybe a bit of a closet theatre nerd. Not that I needed more things to be in the closet about.

I walked back over and plopped down in the grass towards the back of the small crowd. A redheaded girl around my age stood on stage and began belting out the lyrics. Now, I always get a bit of a thrill during a good song, but the feeling I was getting inside right now? It wasn't normal.

"Wow. She's good," I mumbled to myself.

And she really was. I'd heard my fair share of covers of this song, but this girl was amazing. And damn, was she pretty.

Everyone began applauding. I hadn't realized the song was over. It was like I was in a trance.

The girl walked offstage and greeted some friends. I wished I'd caught her name.

For a minute, I stared at her and considered saying something. She really did have talent, and she deserved to know that. At one point, she caught my gaze, but then she went back to talking.

Realizing I probably looked like an idiot just standing there, I started back towards town. As I made my way around a corner, a few guys I recognized from school approached me. One of them grabbed my shoulders and shoved me back into the brick wall of the building. Hard.

"Where are you going, dyke? Off to find your girlfriend?"

He pushed me down and laughed along with his friends. They high-fived each other as they walked away, leaving me sore on the ground. I pulled myself up as soon as they were out of sight, and started limping in the direction of my car. Screw today. I wanted, _needed_, to get home.

A pair of arms wrapped around me from behind. Instinctively, I tensed up and drove my elbow backwards into the offending person's torso.

"Jesus Christ, Beca! What was that for?" a familiar voice coughed out.

I turned, and sure enough, found myself facing my best friend. "Sorry, Stace," I murmured.

"It's fine," she replied, her hurt expression replaced with a grin. "Sorry I'm late. I met this great guy last night, and we were...hanging out."

I didn't reply. I was no stranger to Stacie's habit of random hookups, but not once had they ever caused me to be slighted.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Her voice snapped me out of my thoughts. She was looking me up and down, taking note of my disheveled appearance and less-than-satisfactorily-functioning leg.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I spit out, as I spun around and continued heading to my car.

She didn't follow me.

My thoughts plagued me on the long walk. I'd been bullied before, sure. But it had always been verbal.

Then again, would it really make much of a difference if it became physical?

Oddly enough, the redhead with the amazing voice popped into my head that night.

* * *

On October 17th, I found myself in the emergency room.

It had all become too much for me to handle. My grades were pathetic. The previously miniscule rumors had swelled, causing me to receive a steady stream of insults and death threats from people I'd never spoken to before. I was pushed around, punched and shoved like a plaything. My mom and stepdad didn't notice. They ignored me half the time, anyway, so why would they?

I'd begun cutting into myself with a small razor I found in my parents' bathroom. Making myself bleed wasn't enough anymore, though. The razor did nothing but temporarily numb my misery. When the cuts began to heal over into scars, it only reminded me that I myself wasn't healing. Would I ever?

Probably not, I thought.

So I locked myself in the bathroom that night and slowly dragged the blade across my wrists. But this time, I was cutting deeper than  
I had before. This time, I was cutting to kill.

I passed out in a pool of red liquid, and woke up hours later in a hospital bed.

This wasn't right. I didn't want to be saved.

But I had been. And as I slowly drifted in and out of sleep, I dreamt of slow music and old records...and a certain redhead.


	4. NOTICE

This is not a new chapter. I apologize to anyone who thought it was.

I'm sorry to say that this story will be on hiatus for a short while. Don't fret, it won't be for long, and I swear up and down that it will be finished! No matter how long it takes, I don't abandon my fics. But the girl this is based on, as we delve into the Chloe chapters, has become the opposite of the person she used to be; she's become cruel and cold and selfish and malicious. I don't think my heart can handle writing with her in mind due to the current circumstances. With some time away from the girl and the notebook this fic revolves around, hopefully the pain will subside and I can continue this sooner rather than later.

Again, I'm sorry.


End file.
